Does Breast Cancer Unfairly Hog The Cancer Spotlight?S

Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering strap-ons, medicine cabinets, knives and hammers, USB warnings, and more.

Your letters:

Sean:

I am bothered by the fact that the breast cancer people are everywhere and have seemingly cornered the market on cancer research related 5K runs. The October pinkfest, where everything NFL turns into a bottle of pepto-bismol, has finally pushed me over the edge. The chance of developing invasive breast cancer at some time in a woman's life is a little less than 1 in 8 (12%), while at the same time, about 1 man in 6 (16%) will be diagnosed with prostate cancer during his lifetime. What do you think we need to do in order to get every NFL team decked out in baby-blue for "Prostate Cancer Awareness Month"?

We have to give Brett Favre prostate cancer. Couldn't be a simpler solution. Fucking Favre. HOW COULD YOU OVERTHROW HARVIN LIKE THAT AT THE END, YOU CUMBUBBLE? FUCK YOU IN HALF.

Anyway, it's true that breast cancer gets more play than prostate cancer. But the average age of a breast cancer diagnosis is 61, and the average age of prostate cancer diagnosis is 70. In other words, prostate cancer is just one of those things you get when you're already fucking old and dying. Whereas breast cancer can hit women at a much younger age. Both Leitch and I have had family members that have had breast cancer, and it's not fun at all. But you already knew that.

Let's get into the real reason why breast cancer has the best Q rating of all cancers: BOOBS. Boobs are crucial to men and women alike. What woman wants to live without boobs? What man wants to live with a woman without boobs? Boobs are the key to EVERYTHING. A prostate is just a walnut God jammed inside your taint. Boobs, on the other hand, are majestic. They nurture. They protect. They look AWESOME in v-neck sweaters. They must be sheltered and protected. They must be allowed to grow, and thrive, and be nuzzled against. Even old lady boobs. Even a 61-year-old gal's wrinkled, hairy, distressed leather coin pouches deserve your generous support. Don't hate on Susan Komen and the gang just because they have better marketing savvy than Uncle Barney's Olde Tyme Prostate Fund. HATE THE GAME.

Tyler:

Is it even possible to grab something in the medicine cabinet without knocking FUCKING EVERYTHING off the shelves? And I'm not talking about cool things like bottles of Percodan; no, I mean like all of your wife's tweezers and other assorted bullshit.

Ridiculous construction, these medicine cabinets; couldn't the shelves have front protectors on them like a shower caddy?

Agreed. And a lot of times, I have to reach into a cabinet in the middle of the night to grab the Advil because I'm drunk as Hell and need to pre-empt my hangover. It's impossible to keep the light off and grab that Advil without knocking over the seventy bottles of eye cream my wife has purchased. And the wife always looks at you like YOU'RE the asshole for knocking that shit over. Do you think I LIKE knocking it over? Do you think I LIKE bending over sixty times and experiencing crippling back pain? This cabinet needs deeper shelves and front protector, god dammit.

Or all your shit should be in a drawer, like spices. Drawers are solid like that.

Aaron:

Every single time I unplug a USB, I seem to do it too quickly and get that warning that I could have just harmed my computer or the files on my disk from the improper ejection. I have probably done this over 100 times and I have yet to actually harm any files, so I have gotten to a point where I eject everything from my computer with reckless abandonment-USBs, Ipods, Cameras the works. My question is has anyone ever actually been harmed by this or is this just a way for the USB people to fuck with us?

I always flat out forget to eject the hardware. It's just that one extra step I have no interest in taking. I don't even know why I have to eject it first. It's an iPod. It should be able to withstand such things. If simply unplugging the thing from the computer ruins it, then the product is fucking faulty.

Sometimes, I get that warning even if I've unplugged it correctly. Or the power will go out for a second, the computer will reboot, and a prompt will show up to tell me that I did not properly unplug the device before turning the power off. They really make you feel like an asshole for doing that, and it's not even your fault. I want to explain to my piece of shit Mac that I have no control over the goddamn power grid. If I did, the electricity would go off at Mike Wilbon's house for ninety straight fucking days.

I'm sure unplugging a device while it's still connected to your computer CAN fuck with it somehow. It's just never happened to any of the shit I use. As far as I know. Oh, fuck it. I'm sure Polish hackers have already infiltrated my iPod and discovered that Jamiroquai song I like. But I'm not gonna let them extort me just because I secretly adore "Cosmic Girl". Cocks.

Wade:

I went to the convenience store yesterday morning to buy a cup of coffee. I throw a $50 bill down on the counter. This isn't my preferred denomination, but that's what the bank gave me. The dude behind the counter looks at it like it's a bar of gold or something and says "Whoa, do you have anything smaller? I can't break that!" He ended up giving me my coffee for free. When did the $50 bill become such a high-rolling note? I'm going to start trying to purchase everything with large bills in hopes that I'll never have to pay for anything again.

I dunno, I've always been kind of awed by fifty dollar bills. I never have any on my person, because Gawker pays me strictly in cheese rinds. Whenever I see one, I always get a little nervous. I always think to myself HOLY FUCK, THIS IS A LOT OF MONEY FOR ONE SLIP OF PAPER. And hundreds are even more mind-blowing. I may have come from an elitist prep school asshole background, but I still think fifty bucks is a lot of fucking money, particularly when I see it in bill form.

I've long thought that anyone who carries lots of fifties or hundreds on their person is a complete prick who wants to show off the fact that they have those bills on them. I went to bachelor party in Vegas once and one of the guys we went with worked at a bank and was very rich. He was also a prick. So he sits down at one of the tables and he lays down five hundred bucks, all in hundreds, to buy chips. And he fanned them out wide, specifically so that we could see that he was laying five hundreds down on the table, which I thought was a total dick move. It was also clear, at least to me, that he did not appreciate those hundreds as much as I would have. If someone handed me five one hundred dollars bills, I'd just sit in my room and stare at them for an hour in awe. This is why I want to rob a bank one day. Not because I need the health insurance money (though I do), but because I really like the idea of opening up a bag or case and seeing shitloads of cash inside. That would give me a boner through the goddamn ceiling.

Anonymous Dad:

A few years ago, my wife, toddler daughter, and I went into some young guy's moving sale, and among all the crap I didn't need was a 4-foot stack of Playboys on sale for $20. While we were in different rooms, I gave it a long, long look. As we drove home I couldn't get the stack out of my mind. At home, eventually, my thought process went like this: I love pictures of naked women... What a great bargain… But the internet is free and much easier to hide… And, come on, where would I store them, and when would I ever be able to look at them? I mean, am I going to hide them in a hidden airtight container out in the shed, and then bring them out once a year when my wife and daughter go visit my in-laws for a couple days without me so I can tear the mags apart and just wallpaper the whole house with naked women...?

And I grabbed my keys, said "We need milk, right?", and a few minutes later was talking the guy down to $15. For a few days a year, I almost literally can see nothing but naked female flesh in my kitchen and family room, and it's nice.

Awwww. Warms my heart. I think old-style porn appeals to men our age because it was our first vehicle for jerking off. It's fun to masturbate and reminisce all at the same time. You know how dipshit old newspaper guys like Tony Kornheiser are like DURRR I DON'T LIKE READING MY NEWS ON A COMPUTER! I LIKE THE FEEL OF INK DURRRRRR! You can get that feeling with porn sometimes. Sure, you can hit up Redtube and watch a girl get fisted with a monkey paw any time you like. BUT WHERE IS THE LOVE?!

I wrote some shit for Penthouse a while back and they sent me three copies of the issue I wrote in. I then brought these issues to a bachelor party weekend with some friends, and we left the copies on the coffee table and in the shitter and stuff. And it was really WAS nice to have all that nudity out and around. It was like being in high school all over again. The ladies are just that much more naked in shiny, glossy print, I tell you.

Side note: When I went to dipshit prep school, I lived in a dorm with forty other prep school dipshits. One day, a friend of mine clipped out pictures from Penthouse and Velvet and plastered the stairwell with them, just as a goof. Later that day, he walks in from class and he sees the school janitor, Bob. Bob was drunk all the fucking time. This is the exchange they had.

FRIEND: How's it going, Bob?

BOB: I gotta go rub one out. THERE'S ALL THIS PUSSY ON THE WALL!

Nothing beats pussy on the wall.

One last thing about yard sales: I would never buy new books or toys for my kids if I didn't hate going to yard sales (or buying shit from weird people on Craig's List) so much. Surely, there are more than enough used books and toys out there for me to never have to purchase them new ever again. But if that means I have to spend part of the weekend going to some fucking yard sale at some weird stranger's house and talking to some asshole lady trying to pawn off her old tea kettle for three bucks? No fucking way. I'll buy the new copy of GOODNIGHT MOON every time.

Keith:

Is there a bigger rollercoaster of emotions than when you think you're being followed home while driving? At first, you become a little suspicious when you notice the same car has been behind you for a while and has made 1 or 2 of the same turns. Then, after said car makes an additional 3 or so more of the same turns as you, your adrenaline starts pumping when you become convinced that this person is trailing you home in a sinister attempt to make you a victim of a home invasion.

This is the time when you survey the car for any potential weapons: "I'll beat you to death with my umbrella asshole!". So you're prepared for a fight to the death in your driveway, you make the final turn onto your street, but your imagined assailant just keeps going straight. As you approach your house you're simultaneously relieved that you don't have to engage in combat, but disappointed because your fight or flight response was in full effect. This happens to me at least once a week.

This happens to me anytime I'm closely tailgated on a highway. It's not enough that the person behind me is simply an asshole for tailgating me. If they tail me closely enough, I always assume it's someone who, for one reason or another, has a personal vendetta against me and is purposely menacing me and my family. (I blame Duel.) Then I look in the rearview mirror to make out the fucker's face, only his windshield is tinted, which means the car may not even be driven by human being, but rather a cyborg sent from the future by Skynet to saw me in half and hang me up by my dick.

By the way, to anyone with a ski rack: FUCK YOU. Okay? Your goddamn ski rack looks like a cop siren from 1000 yards away in the rearview. You take your ski rack and your fresh powder and you go fuck your grandpa.

HALFTIME!

Kralldaddy:

So you are trapped in an 8' x 8' room with your exact equal. Same strength, same fighting ability. You must kill the other person to leave the room. You have two options: A kitchen knife (5 inch blade, nice and sharp) or a carpenter's hammer. (has that nice nail removing hook on the back end). Which weapon do you take?

This debate raged through my college house. Team knife is usually the guys afraid of being stabbed, but I have 100% confidence that if I take the hammer, I walk out of that room. You can swing it at his wrists when he tries to stab you, it works both directions if you choose to do the "mortal kombat button mash swing wildly with your eyes closed" method and if you have enough balls you take the stabbing and get a clear shot at the temple. Game, set, match.

This question is similar to the BRICK VS. STICK one of a few months ago. For reasons that I don't fully understand, I'm much terrified by the prospect of someone stabbing me than of someone hitting me with a hammer. I think it's because I watched Psycho when I was, like, five. Thanks, mom. Thanks for making for scared of trannies and butcher knives for the rest of my existence. Seriously, trannies will stab you and bury you in tar. It's a fact.

I'd recoil more at a knife attack because I know, or at least I assume, that even if the hammer hits me, it doesn't pose the threat of breaking skin open the way a knife would (unless the assailant opted for attacking with the nail hook end in front). It's horrifying to think someone is coming at you intent to slit you open and let your insides leak out. I find being bludgeoned to death much more comforting. So I'd take the knife and play the role of the knife-wielding psychopath. It may not be the right choice, practically speaking. But again, trannies with knives, man.

Bryan:

This was taken outside of a Sporting Goods store in Seattle. You want to run or touch it?

Does Breast Cancer Unfairly Hog The Cancer Spotlight?

No found porn is ever accidental, people.

Paul:

I've been stuck in a spirited debate with my friends for quite some time now. Which option would you choose: Get banged in the ass by a chick with a strap-on or let a dude blow you?

I've always gone with chick with strap-on, but some friends prefer the beej. The way I see it, you're still engaged in a sexual act with a female. My friend insists that with the BJ, you're the pitcher, whereas with the chick, you're the catcher. Many new factors have been introduced over time, including how long each act lasts, how hot is the chick, etc.

I would take the strap-on. Assuming it's a fairly modest strap-on, and not some 14" Lexington Steele replica dildo that will find its way into my stomach. I say this as someone who has been subjected to a prostate exam (unpleasant) and dug around his own butthole in the shower (always fun). Plenty of guys like the old finger in the butt during intercourse (some girls will tell you stimulating the prostate gives the man a more intense orgasm, though I suspect this is just because they want to jam a finger in your butt for fun), though I can't say I'm among them. I don't know that I'd enjoy having a dildo stuffed inside my body, but I do know it would give me a fun story to tell. Also, it would let the gal know you're adventurous, and that perhaps she'd be willing to reciprocate by allowing you to perform some sort of equally perverse sexual act upon her. WHO'S UP FOR A GOOD SMOKY EYE, AM I RIGHT?!

Whereas if you let a guy blow you, there's no real added benefit after the fact. It's not like you're gonna want to try new things on him after you do it. Assuming you were heterosexual, you'd probably want to wipe the act from your memory as quickly as possible. I'm as liberal as the next guy, but I have stumbled upon pictures of guys blowing guys before (There was this one Jenna Jameson movie I saw where she walked into a sex club and they did a quick shot of two men together. I really wasn't prepared for that.). And… yeah, not my thing. Vibrator up the rectum for me!

Patrick:

Spotted on a hungover bagel run in Hampton Bays, NY. What really did
it for me was the dueling cobras plate frame.

Does Breast Cancer Unfairly Hog The Cancer Spotlight?S




Me too. Might be Bill Maas' car.

Brett:

I was out drinking with some buddies the other night and we began debating the most optimal placement for a high-five when you are unaware of the kind of high-five your high-fiving friend is about to throw.

Up high, hand at the same height as your head. Any higher than that, and you risk embarrassing a shorter friend. Celebrating in such an overly cautious and dorky manner is standard white boy operating procedure.

Dan:

Why do people in line at the grocery checkout get SO ANXIOUS over the little order-divider bars? As if the cashier reached over and touched my stuff, he's legally bound to buy it. We all know it's not a big deal, the register has an undo button.

I was waiting in line today and this guy kept pushing his shit to the back of the conveyor belt while the couple up front was finishing their checkout, boxing me out from starting to put my stuff down. He looked VERY concerned about keeping his pile sacred. Then when I finally had some daylight, I put my first can down while the first couple's final item went through the scanner. In that INSTANT, he shifted from the boxing out to a lighting quick bar-transition to behind his own order.

You'd think this is the behavior of a crazy person, but it happens ALL the time. Either the conveyor belt hogging, or the fucking SCREAM when the cashier goes past your order - "THAT'S NOT MINE! THAT'S HIS!"

I think the reason is, in general, is because everyone at the supermarket is your enemy. From the fuckers jamming up the parking lot, to the assholes leaving their cart in the center of the produce aisle, to the retard cashier. Everyone in that fucking store is an obstacle placed in your way, sucking away precious minutes of your life and keeping you from getting home sooner to rip open the bag of ham and ruin its SHIT. Everyone who goes into a grocery store who is not stoned wants to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible, and thus it creates a more naturally tense environment, where stupid shit like conveyor belt placement takes on all the importance of debating abortion.

Everyone is terrified of being ripped off at the store. Grocery clerks are retards, so there's an inherent fear that they'll double scan something, or fail to swipe your card properly, or do something stupid that costs you money. And no one likes to come home from the store, look at the receipt, and figure out they've paid for one extra green pepper they didn't mean to buy. I'm fucking livid when that happens, because there's no fucking way I'm going back to return that shit.

I personally get pissed if I'm in a grocery lane and the person in front of me has failed to do an adequate job of keeping all their shit on the belt tightly bunched together. Sometimes, you get behind a real fucker who leaves oceans of blank belt space around every food item. Meanwhile, you're stuck behind the fucker with a basket and you put a gallon of skim in it because you're fucking stupid and now the basket is crushing your fingers and if this cockgobbler had just taken care to move his shit up, you'd have some relief by now. FUCKFACE. I WANT TO PUT THIS SHIT DOWN. I've pushed people's shit down the belt on occasion. I FEAR NOTHING.

Zack:

The other day we were behind one of those big RV campers, the ones with that weird little ladder on the back. We were stopped at an intersection and I asked my friend what do you think would happen if I got out right now, climbed up the ladder to the roof of the RV, opened the hatch up, dropped down, said hello to the occupants, opened the door and then just got back into my truck. One wonders how many laws that violates...

Probably just breaking and entering. But yeah, those ladders… so very tempting. It's like a moving jungle gym! You could drink beer on top!

Finally, a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Yet another poop on mass transit this week, as reader Urban Poop submits this story I call SUBWAY: POOP FRESH.

I went to school in the Bronx, but the neighborhood it was located in was predominately Jewish and Irish. My buddy comes into my dorm and asks if I want to meet up with everyone at bar known for it's cheap, hot, and delicious buffalo wings, along with not id'ing anyone. I had not eaten dinner yet, and realized I was starving- so I was in. I get to work eating probably like 50 wings because I was so hungry. Then drank about eight or nine bud light drafts. Everyone's having a good time, and it's getting sorta late, I now start to feel the repercussions of my actions. My stomach is basically saying "you have top's, 8 minutes to get to a toilet or else it's colon blow time".

The toilet in the bar looked like it was used exclusively for slaughtering feral cats and homeless people. I had confidence I could make it, so I hastily tell my bro's I'm leaving— and one of my buddy's decides to join me back to the dorm. It's kind of chilly out and I notice a subway coming (the subway is above ground in this part of the Bronx, and the final stop is just about right in front of my dorm). I'm like "yo, let's catch this train so we don't have to walk!" We run up the stairs, pass through the turnstiles, and hop on the train as the doors are closing (Amen). We take a minute to catch our breath and realize we're alone in the subway car.

We're two stops away, nine city blocks, and it's like 3 am. We're moving and then hit the first stop, no one gets on. The whole ride I've been telling my friend about how bad I had to shit, and was clenching my whole body as tight as possible and he's just chuckling to himself about it. Then midway between that stop and the final stop, my destination, the train stops and the conductor announces "we're waiting for the trains to clear out of the final stop". I'm drenched in sweat, panicking, now realizing that no matter what I wasn't making it to my dorm to shit.

I tell my buddy to watch my back, I go in between trains, drop trou- and unleash what I can only describe as water balloon filled with the most wet diarrhea exploding out of my ass- laced with a jubilee of painful buffalo spice. Relief washes over me like a 10 foot wave and my sweat is now cold. I look down and I realize I'm shitting onto a major street from 14 feet up, as that happens, the train starts back up and I continue fiercely to empty my colon. This time I'm watching it hit moving cars as I move in the opposite direction —and now I'm laughing because I'm pretty drunk too. I take off my sock wipe my ass, and toss down. Fix myself up, walk back into the train car and my friend is looking at me laughing his ass off.

Hope you hit a livery cab.